


wax and wane.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel
Genre: Abuse, Consent Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Power Imbalance, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 01:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Sometimes, you don't know what you have until the Grandmaster threatens to take it away.





	wax and wane.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from jesteress: Can I request reluctant jealous loki? The only thing worse than being the grandmasters favourite is losing his position as the favourite.

Loki lets out a desperate sound of pain, and he tightens his grip in the sheet, but he doesn’t move,  _won’t_  move. The wax drips hot down the white flesh of his thigh, as red as Æsir blood, and the pain is  _unbearable_ , seeming to eat right down to the bone, although it isn’t truly – it is merely wax, sliding over his skin.

“Aw, honey,” the Grandmaster chides him softly. “Don’t act like you— Don’t pretend you don’t, uh, you don’t want it.”

“I told you I  _didn’t_  want it,” Loki mutters. “Three times.” The Grandmaster smiles at him, fluttering his eyelashes, and immediately, Loki knows his mistake. “No, no, don’t—” Wax drips down over his lips, some of its desperately hot heat dragging over the cool opening of his hole, and he screams, writhing on the bed – and worst of all, worst still than the agony itself, is that he can feel his hole  _clenching_ , feel spasms of pleasure run through his cock— “I hate you.”

“Aw, sweetie,” the Grandmaster murmurs softly. “You’ll— You’ll hurt my  _feelings_ , talking like that. You’re getting a bit, huh, complacent.”

“Complacent?” Loki repeats softly.

“Uh huh.”

Ϟ ❄ ϟ ❄ ϟ ❄ ϟ ❄ ϟ ❄ Ϟ

Loki freezes in the doorway of the throne room, and he  _stares_. The girl in the Grandmaster’s lap is… Passably pretty. She has warm, red skin and pink eyes, a Krylorian, and she laughs when the Grandmaster’s fingers play over her bare breasts.

It is the third time he has seen the Krylorian in the Grandmaster’s lap this week, and he…

This had been the plan. Hadn’t this been the plan? He would withstand the Grandmaster’s abuses, his obscenities, until the Grandmaster tired of him, and then use the Grandmaster’s waning interest to make his escape. It’s been two years on Sakaar’s strange time, and Loki had believed it would never  _end_  – perhaps, indeed, he had become complacent in the Grandmaster’s attentions.

The Grandmaster isn’t even  _looking_  for him. His eyes are only on the Krylorian girl, and Loki can’t stand the sudden wolf that snaps its jaws within him, monstrous and loud and wanting to rear and rip at flesh.

Loki feels his hands clench tightly at his side, and immediately his leathers disappear in a shimmer of shifting seiðr, replaced with white silk that drapes artfully over his body, catching the light. He turns to catch his reflection in a mirror, and he settles accents in his hair, golden chains that hang from the shell of his ear.

He can’t seriously be doing this. Just a few  _days_  with that stupid Krylorian, and Loki might be free – the Grandmaster would hardly chase after him if he had a new pet.

_So you would just let her have him?_

_He isn’t mine._

_Isn’t he? What, given up already, have you?_  He sets his jaw as he looks in the mirror.

_I could be free. I could be free, and I could escape, and I could **leave** …_

_And where would you go?_  Loki stares at the hard look in the eyes of his reflection, and the response, echoing within his own head, cuts him to the bone.  _Who would want you, after all you’ve done?_

Loki turns back toward the room, and he slowly steps out of the corridor and into the room itself. Immediately, many of the Sakaarii turn to look at the Grandmaster’s  _favoured_  toy, takes in the way the silk clings tight to Loki’s body and shows the shape of his shoulders, the hips…

Loki can feel with his seiðr the way that the Grandmaster’s head turns, but he doesn’t turn to meet his gaze, and instead moves immediately across the room, tapping the arm of a Xandaran and joining a conversation.

Loki can be the centre of attention when he wants to be, and he  _is_ , with ease. Within an hour, Loki is telling a story about some misadventure he had when he was much younger, on the plains of Jafara, and every member of the crowd is absolutely  _rapt_ , focused on him as he smiles and continues to weave his tale.

“That was wonderful, Loki,” a Galatean tells him sweetly, and Loki beams at her, touching his hand through her hair and looking down at her with sweet indulgence. “You’re… You’re a very good storyteller. When you talk, I’m just… Kinda spellbound.”

“Is that so?” Loki reaches up, touching the tip of her chin and tilting her up to look at him properly. “ _Bless_  you, my dear. It’s always such a delight to be appreciated.” The Galatean laughs softly, and she is all but hanging from his arm—

And easily, Loki neatly extricates himself and walks away. The Krylorian girl is on the other side of the room, ordering drinks, and Loki stands over the Grandmaster, his arms neatly crossed over his chest, his gaze on the Grandmaster’s face.

“What’s her name?” Loki asks, and the Grandmaster leans back in his seat, his hands loosely interlinked over his belly. His lips are quirked into an amused little smirk.

“I love the dress,” the Grandmaster purrs. “It’s— mmm, very cute.”

“Tell me her name.”

“Does it, uh, matter?”

“No.” Loki leans in, and he dances his fingers over the Grandmaster’s thigh, playing over the robe there, and then he leans in closer. His breath ghosts over the Grandmaster’s lips, teasing, and when the Grandmaster leans in to kiss him, Loki closes his hand around the Grandmaster’s throat. “Really?” Loki murmurs. “You think I want to kiss you?”

“Oh, kitty’s, uh, kitty’s showing some claws, huh?” the Grandmaster asks quietly,  _deeply_  patronising. “You think I can’t replace you, huh, honey? You think… What, you think you’re, uh,  _special_?” It’s like a blade that digs into Loki’s very heart, and he stops himself from inhaling sharply. He  _isn’t_  special. He knows he isn’t, knows there are a million lost things just like him, or  _better_.

“You think that I’m not?” Loki squeezes tight at the sides of the Grandmaster’s jaw, feeling the hard, strong bone. “Then in your old age, Grandmaster, you are blind.” He shoves the Elder away slightly, and he can feel the eyes of everybody in the room on his back, even as he drops onto the Grandmaster’s knees, and he spreads his hand on the Grandmaster’s chest. “No wax.”

“No wax? And what— Huh, then what’s the point of you, honey?” Loki laughs. He doesn’t show the desperate frustration, the  _fury_ , that bubbles deep within him, and instead retains a perfectly cool exterior.

“What indeed,” Loki murmurs, dragging his fingers over the Grandmaster’s sternum and leaving tingling seiðr in his wake. He can see the Grandmaster shiver, and he knows this is dangerous – this is more than flirting with danger, truly: this is flirting with death. “If you don’t want me, I’ll go.”

“Will you?” the Grandmaster asks. He arches his eyebrows, seeming unimpressed, and then he says, dryly, “And, uh, where will you go, honey?”

“I’m worshiped on twenty-seven planets,” Loki murmurs. “I have more places to go than you think.” It’s like a game of poker, in a way.

“Maybe…” the Grandmaster trails off, playing over the line of Loki’s trouser leg, his fingers smooth over the silk. “Aw, I don’t  _know_ , sweetheart. If you’re gonna come with, uh,  _strings_  attached… I don’t know if I want a pet that says  _no_.”

“Don’t have a pet, then. Get an upgrade.”

“And, uh, what’s  _better_?”

Loki uses his god voice to reply, and the word echoes through the room, rattling the windows in their frames and making the half a hundred Sakaarii jolt and jerk in fear and uncertainty: “ _Me_.”

“See, this is… Aw. This is  _cute_ , honey. Thinking you can compare— You really think you want to go toe-to-toe with an Elder?”

“Maybe not with you,” Loki murmurs. “But I wager I could take your brother.” The Grandmaster laughs, leaning back and showing all his teeth, and Loki smiles, reaching up and playing over the Grandmaster’s neck, feeling the golden skin under his fingers. The Grandmaster’s skin is incandescently hot, and it should burn him, really – it ought burn him. It never does, even when the Grandmaster is feeling his  _cruellest_.

“I’d—  _Golly_ , Tan-Tan’d really be upset if you kicked him on his ass.” The Grandmaster says it thoughtfully, and he puts his hands on Loki’s waist. “But, uh, don’t  _kid_  yourself, honey. We’re— You aren’t my equal, Lo-Lo. You’re…  _Fun_ , sure. But do you have  _any_  idea how, uh, how beneath me you are?”

“Seems to me like I’m on top of you,” Loki murmurs. The Grandmaster’s hand is suddenly around his throat, squeezing, but Loki keeps his expression stony. “Don’t tell me you’re  _frightened_.”

“Me? Frightened?” Loki laughs around the hand on his throat.

“Oh, you  _are_. That’s… Grandmaster, that is  _adorable_.” Loki cups the Grandmaster’s cheeks, takes in the curl of his handsome lip, takes in the darkness of his honey-coloured eyes. “What, frightened that someone might look at me before you? Frightened of someone else taking the spotlight? Or are you… Frightened I’ll  _leave_?”

“I’m not frightened of  _anything_ , honey.” The Grandmaster’s grip loosens slightly, however, and he drags his fingernail down the length of Loki’s chin, leaving a stripe of tingling skin in parallel to the Grandmaster’s mark in paint. “But I just told you. I’m not interested in somebody who says  _no_  all the time.”

“Do you mean  _all the time_ , or  _ever_?” The Grandmaster presses his lips together. “I’m staying.”

“And what about Carli, huh? What about  _her_?” Loki leans back, looking at the Krylorian somewhat dispassionately, and then he slowly stands from the Grandmaster’s lap. She’s standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, two glasses held in one of her hands and the other awkwardly held over her belly…

“Carli, is it?” Loki asks softly, sweetly. The Krylorian swallows hard, and then she nods her head. “Oh, you’re so  _pretty_. I love this hair.” Loki reaches out, gently drawing his thumbs over the sides of her jaw and gently settling his fingers against her neck. “You’re  _beautiful_ , darling.”

“I thought you were going to hurt me,” the Krylorian whispers, and Loki chuckles. She relaxes marginally, offering a small, shy smile.

“And why would I do that?”

“You— I’ve seen you, with the Grandmaster. Before.”

“And yet you still decided to get… So close. Why is that?” Her eyes widen slightly, the pink irises shining in the light, and her lips part.

“Um— you don’t really, uh… I was just—”

“Just, yes,” Loki agrees, softly. “ _Just_.” It’s an easy shift of his wrists to the side. The Krylorian neck is more brittle than most – it can take more abuse, but when the strength of Loki’s hands twist it hard to the side, it  _cracks_  so loudly it rings through the room, and as the girl falls to the ground, Loki artfully catches hold of the two wineglasses, letting her drop to the ground. “Get that, would you?” he says over his shoulder to a passing server. “Thank you.”

“That was  _mean_ ,” the Grandmaster says. He looks pleased. Loki holds one glass out to the Grandmaster, lets him take it. “So. The wax.”

“Back to the wax,” Loki mutters.  _Where else would you go?_  Draining his glass, he sets it aside. “Tell me I’m your favourite.”

“You’re, huh, you’re my  _favourite_ , honey,” the Grandmaster murmurs. “Don’t you already know?”

“You can use the wax.”

“Really? You won’t, uh, you won’t say no? Won’t tell me to stop? Won’t  _complain_?”

“I’ll complain.” The Grandmaster chuckles, and then a momentary softness comes into his eyes, a softness that burns Loki worse than the wax had, a softness that makes him  _crumble_  inside. “But I’ll let you.”

“Such a— You’re so pretty. You know that? You’re so pretty.” The Grandmaster’s fingers come back to his face, playing over the skin there, and Loki hates himself, hates everything  _about_  himself – he ought have run, ought have escaped, but… The Grandmaster’s fingers feel so pleasant on his skin. He feels…

He doesn’t want to go.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Loki confesses, quietly. “I was lost without you.”

“Sakaar is a place for lost things, honey,” the Grandmaster murmurs. “You belong…  _Right here_.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t. There are a million better places, a million places he’d rather be… It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the Grandmaster’s fingers, possessive on his skin. All that matters.

“Yes,” Loki agrees, and he catches the Grandmaster’s mouth under his own.

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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